Biotech
by risika-dragon
Summary: Ashley and Ax are taken to a place known as Biotech, a governmental conspiracy mutating humans with alien DNA. For what reasons? Can they escape? Will they help or stop the scientists?


**Author's Note**: I can't call this my story--exactly. My friend is afraid of flames and such, so she wants me to update her story on MY account. Oh well. Just call her Psycho Path--for the love of God, please don't ask--but if you do, I'll explain. She's also the person helping me with some chapters in The Demons.

**Full Summary**: Ashley is an orphan on the streets of California, Aximili is a stranded Andalite aristh. Both have nothing in common until they wind up on a mysterious island with mad scientists with their twisted experimentations, Ashley being one of them. What is the connection to it all? And where does it lead Ash and Ax as they scramble to find an escape of Biotech and a way to either help or stop the final plan of attack?

Disclaimer: Animorphs belongs to K.A.Applegate, but Ashley and Biotech belong to my best friend. I simply put it on my account.

Rated PG-17 for language, violence, and sexual content.

Also, just kidding about the Pix warning. The reason I put this up before Chapter 28 is that Psycho had a weird idea of pairing **Toby and Ax **together in The Demons. Should I, or shouldn't I? Please review!

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**Chapter 1: Caught and Choice**

**ASHLEY**

My name is Ashley. Ashley Bosworth, my name and the clothes on my back probably the only two things I have ever constantly owned in the past four years. I was not born in a comfy, warm, expensive home with a cheerful mother, workaholic father, pesky sibling, and a dog named Rover or Spot or Lucky. I was born an only child--at least from what I was told--to two very screwed up high school drop outs that didn't have jobs or the heart for an abortion (or they may have simply been too cheap). So they did the one thing they could: put me up for adoption.

I was stuck in a stupid orphanage in California until my eleventh birthday, each day a living Hell with strict adults, tasteless food, and the like. Needless to say, I ran off the small, weed grown playground one day and started living out on the streets. Thankfully, it never snowed down here, there are plenty of spots to live in if you know how to find them (a.k.a. back alleys, abandoned buildings, and, if all comes to worse, subway stations with the bums and whores), and people will toss you a few bucks or donut if you give the Pity Me Look (sorry, I gave up on senseless pride a LONG time ago).

I have white gold hair--the kind you usually only earn by constant hair-and-spa appointments--but since I can only use those stinky, athlete's foot smelling showers at this cheapo gym I know, it's usually an unruly mess. My eyes are green and my skin is a porcelain white, which might have made me a "babe", if I didn't happen to wear oversized boy t-shirts, ripped jeans, and my lips weren't scarred from me constantly chewing on them. Last I checked a calendar, I'm about fifteen since last September.

The only education I've gotten for the past four years has been from shoplifting Times magazines and science books, as well as the occasional talk with a business or scientist riding the subway cause it's cheaper than taxis--apparently they're lonely enough old men to talk with exceptionally smart orphans. That or it might be the way they always look a bit southward of my head. Who knows? Big breasts make being a pickpocket easier when they don't get too suspicious when you lean in closer to them and toss your hair a little.

Anywho, maybe I should stop mapping out my last fifteen years and tell of recent events, no? Sure, things aren't quite boring at all on the streets and I could produce a few volumes about the life of a teenage thief, but government conspiracies, alien invasions, and biological mutations are more interesting to people from what I've heard.

As it always happens in the books and movies (and you can add real life on that list too) I was walking down a street alley alone past a couple street prostitutes, new to it because they still had all their teeth, and fellow street losers, though all three were at least seven or eight years older then me. No, I wasn't suddenly raped, or knifed, or some cop suddenly busted on all of us. I was simply starving. It was eight o' clock at night and this mornings two bagels were gone and digested, so I was out with a pocket knife in my left boots--J C Penny needs better security cameras--and a few dollars in my jeans pocket.

I left the daily (or nightly) street stalkers in that alley and emerged onto some random sidewalk, ignored as always by the pedestrians who didn't care that tax money didn't go to those who really needed it, and saw a Taco Bell that I had yet to visit. It would be legal to simply pay the damn three bucks on a burrito, but if I could get out of paying for whole meals at Eat 'N' Park and Ponderosa, there was no way I was lowering myself for a fast food restaurant. I could walk in, grab the food, and run like hell before the cashier asked for a sum of money. Then, I'd just not go there for a couple months and pull the same trick again. I'd done it at enough Wendy's and Burger Kings, so why wouldn't it work now?

_Him_. Because I was stupid enough to talk to _him_.

I walked into the small establishment and grinned smugly. Only two guys choosing idly at the counter were there and the cashier had enough acne that maybe a bit of flirting would take his mind off charging me beforehand. I tucked some of my black shirt under the wire rim of my bra for emphasis--no, I'm no hoe, but guy shirts are good for everything except they make you flatter looking than a sheet of paper.

Mostly, my attention was easily diverted to the two customers. One was a boy with blond hair that stuck out in all directions, average height, and a weirdly serious, expressionless face, especially when he squinted up at the menu. The other was tall and slightly dark skinned, the kind that couldn't easily be dinned as Caucasian or Negrillo, with dark eyes, black hair, and a tendency to lean to the side while standing still.

I stood behind them, mumbling the lyrics to some _Panic! At The Disco _song, bobbing my head slightly up and down to the melody. While the blond boy ordered for both of them, the other started rocking his skull slightly too and turned around to smile at me. "You ew arrre very good at singing. Zin. Ging," he commented. "I'm Phillip. Ip."

Well, he had a speech dilemma, but otherwise was cute and didn't have the horny or dissipative look most males gave me for wearing trashy clothes or anything. I was also glad he didn't comment on the chlorine-mildew smell clinging to me from yesterday's not-so-lovely shower. I stopped humming the song and grinned back. "Thanks. I probably get too much time on my hands anyway." I brushed a lock of white-yellow strands from my face. "My name's Ashley Weatmere." What? Wasn't it always a bad idea to give your real name away? Oh wait, that was meant for _my _kind of people.

The other guy finished ordering, giving me a quick look--especially at the not-so-classy way I wore a shirt--and dragged his friend away. My, er, actions however worked for Pizzaface and he forgot to charge me before I got my meal. I sat at a random table, sipping a Pepsi, while they got to work making five tacos, three burritos, and two Crunch Wrap Supremes. I waited patiently, clicking my nails on the smooth, plastic table surface littered with crumbs and sauce stains.

Phillip (or Phillip Ip, maybe) left his table and, despite my constant muttered prayers, came over to sit next to me. There was a cheese smear under his lip, but he merely wiped it on his hand and licked it off. Oh well. I had as many table manners as him probably--not too many family dinners for me--so who gave a rat's hind end. He looked at his other palm for a moment and asked, "Do you come here often?" Phillip glanced back at the other boy, who seemed to either enjoy that taco too much or was choking on laughs. Hmm…

"Only when someone else's pilfered the local Krispy Kremes," I answered. Before he could react, I grabbed his wrist and looked at the familiar sentence sketched on it. "So, you might want to tell your buddy over there to come up with better lines. At least write it on your shoe or someplace else. Being so obvious is kinda rude." What? He would probably stall me by the time my order was done.

"I apologize. Appall. Low. Gise. I did not mean to upset oob set you in any way. My friend Tobias suggested ested I socialize, so shell eyes, with someone while we are here and you seemed interesting, into rah ting," he said, though it was somewhat hard to decipher. "Your voice is better then many, men ee, other human voices."

"Other human voices?" I repeated, quirking an eyebrow, and he instantly blanched, suddenly turning to his friend for help. I shook my head. "I guess I can't compete with a canary, can I? Songbirds are out of my league."

"Actually, if you tried to raise your voice a few octaves, ock taves, then I believe eave you would be able bell to compete," he suggested.

I laughed. This had to be the weirdest son of a gun I'd ever spoken with--and that included guys working on space/time continuums on the subway--but at least he was a rather, er, creative speaker. How many male adolescents even knew the meaning of "octave" besides music geeks?

Surprisingly, despite reading all about science subjects such as biology, astrology, and technology from shoplifted books, I had quite a load to speak about with this guy. For Christ's sake, he fricking knew that phalanges were finger and toe bones, the fibula wasn't some kind of joke, and even the names of the new planets found behind Pluto--when someone does have as much free time as me, they tend to memorize weird facts from everywhere. I swear, this kid could've been an alien from planet Andalar for all I knew. Ha ha, as if.

However, the conversation quickly ended as I went up to the counter, grab the bags and stalled for time by doing a thorough check by peering into both bags twice, and, making a move as if to grab change from my pockets, I grinned back at him. His friend was still there and one other guy had come in, wearing a fricking business suit of all things. "I hope to see you again sometime, Phil," I said. He nodded. Then, as quickly as that was said, I simply ran out.

The cashier shouted angrily after me, threatening to call the cops and such, blah, blah, blah, while that Tobias boy snorted annoyingly, coming over to his friend who merely smiled at me. Heh, maybe he was a filcher too. Whatever. I gave the storming manager a special finger goodbye sign, upraised with a smirk, and ducked into another alley.

I kept running merely to keep up the strangely intoxicated feeling of unlawful success, cutting into different streets and crawling up small walls. I finally slowed to a pace after the all-too-short adrenaline rush died down, and trailed back toward my rather dumpy, most recent home. A building scheduled to be knocked down in the next two months stood forlornly at the end of a chain of small stores, ivy grasping the highest bricks and cracks running downward.

"I'm home," I greeted sarcastically, stretching and tossing the bags on the floor of the only used room besides the upstairs bathroom where the idiots had forgotten to shut off the damn water--constant use would probably make my stay a few weeks shorter. A few armloads of dusty magazines laid in one corner, with some scattered shirts and jeans, and a box where I kept whatever money I, ahem, earned. Besides those, the small four-by-five foot room was empty, except for some stained blanket I'd taken out of a department store dumpster (and yes, I'd managed to spray it with enough crap so I wouldn't have to worry about lice and shit for a while).

I unwrapped one of the tacos and munched on it, sitting on the comforter while looking over the latest Times magazine. Boring. The usual "Bush is a Nazi" or "Bush is a Inspiration" contradictory junk, "the war on terror", and everything that could be considered corrupt or scandalous in the U.S. government. I should have just taken a Rolling Stones. I mean, at least we weren't North Korea. I read that those mother fuckers actually had to kiss ass to a dead leader or whoever.

I snorted and tossed it away, leaving half of my meal to hopefully stay fresh until tomorrow morning and laid out flat across my comforter, thinking about that weird kid from Taco Bell. Every time I went into something deep about outer space, especially about sentient life on other planets, he'd look uncomfortable. It got even stranger when I joked about the idea of other aliens being assholes for never contacting us, and he…actually looked offended or depressed. Oh well, just another weird guy.

I closed my eyes, my hands behind my head and legs crossed, when I heard a knocking. I bolted up and made a quick check that the knife was still in my boot. People didn't simply come to ask for a cup of tea. And anyone who was simply curios and wanted to explore the place wouldn't knock for permission.

There was a creaking noise as whoever entered and I looked wildly around, making my way towards the window on the opposite end of the room, ready to jump through and roll across the grass, then sprint off. My fingers curled over the ledge, but I instantly sensed it was too late. I knew someone was behind me, though not whether it was some cop or punk or the owner of this building or whoever.

Heart thudding, I turned around, and faced…Mr. Business Suit from the Taco Bell. He had on a pair of black sunglasses too (why do they always have those damn things? was he part of Men in Black or something?) and slicked back blond hair. I smiled feebly, and asked in the sweetest of voices, "Hey, you don't happen to have a badge or gun, do you? At least not the gun I hope." Unfortunately, I saw something steely hanging on his belt. "Oh come on! It was a damn taco! I should be suing them for whatever Mexican disease is in them. Shouldn't you be out busting homicide cases or eating donuts?"

Mr. B.S. as I shall call him, gave the barest hint of an amused smirk on his face. "You must not have too good of a life here, huh kid?" Huh? I was expecting more along the lines of: _What the fuck are you doing on private property?_

I decided to play along with his little game--whatever it was exactly. "Um, you'd be surprised how good rats make of pets." I laughed. He didn't. Uh-oh.

He gave my collection of books a glance, looking slowly over the titles which easily proclaimed the contents. "I see you're an avid reader. What is your name?" he asked.

"Amy Risha," I lied, having enough sense for that. "Is this the part where you arrest me?" Through my entire life, I haven't even been caught by store managers. I had no intention to be frisked by B.S. here. I took another step closer to the window. "Or do you ask about how I ended up as a screwed over teenager? Well, it all began one drunken night, with Mr. and Mrs. Risha getting bored at a bar…"

"I don't believe that's necessary," Mr. B.S. said quickly, probably not wanting my would-be elaborate details branded into his brain. Well, neither did I, so it was a good tradeoff. "I saw what you did half an hour ago, but I'm not going to turn you into custody either way." Now, here's the part of my story where there should've been a drum roll. "I'm going to give you a choice."

"Gray or black handcuffs?" I asked.

Now a pretty purplish vein had started to throb in his forehead and I mentally smacked myself. Only a real idiot mocked a guy with a gun. He paused to straighten an ugly red tie and asked, "Wouldn't you like to leave this place?"

"Sure. I always wanted to see France or Italy," I answered. _Shut up, dumb-ass! B.S. HAS A DAMN GUN! PUT THAT THROUGH YOUR SKULL, NOT A BULLET!_

"Not exactly," he said, somehow regaining his cool. "Basically, I'm part of a project trying to help kids like you. Kids without homes or parents or money of their own. How would you like to join a place that'll help build an education and new, er, life for you? This world in itself has turned its back on you, but the group I work for won't."

"Just as long as it isn't rehab," I muttered, keeping eye-to-eye with him. Something in my gut told me he wasn't going to take no for an answer, but he was hyping this up into a Charlie's Golden Ticket kind of thing. "So wait, where is this place?"

He smirked. "Me to know, you to find out. The place I'm talking about needs new blood, per se, volunteers who can help us grow in the community." He went onto one of those inspirational talks, the kind that were supposed to enlighten his group as a Candy Land place to me. He cleared his throat in the end. "Of course, there are some costs, but seeing as you already seem to have a fetish for scientific study, I think you'll fit in right along." He did the whole dramatic pause by taking off his glasses like a damn soap opera doctor. "I work for a group known as Biotech."

"Which is probably some fancy name for a juvenile hall someplace I won't like," I said. "But then, if I don't go with you willingly, you'll sell me out to some other group. What're they called? Genetical?"

"For the last time, Amy, I'm not sending you to rehabilitation. If I was, I probably wouldn't have given my little speech, would I?" B.S. asked. He had a point, being as bipolar as he was. The vein was back and most men in suits I'm sure would've dragged me out by now. "I'll simply ask you this: do you want to come with me? You most likely will end up on COPS if you stay here, but with Biotech, you may have a real future ahead in the making."

I don't know why. Later, I would scream and cry and curse myself for not jumping out the window and running to some random place in a random town. But really, what else was there for me? He was right. Sooner or later, my luck would run out and some other pompous guy in a suit would get me, and would more likely send my smart-ass self to a jail cell with all the other bums and criminals and such.

I sighed. "Alright."

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Sorry, my friend Psycho's been reading her Thief Lord book again. PUT THE DAMN BOOK DOWN! Mostly, she's doing all the romance in the story, while I help her out with the "science geek crap" as she likes to refer to it. Please, no flames, or she won't let me put up another chapter. Next is in Ax's POV.


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